Tempus Fugitive

by Nicola Rhodes

  ‘Had enough?’ she snarled.

  ‘Mmm, mmm.’

  Okay.’ She released them and they stood upright, gingerly fingering their ears.

  ‘You call yourselves fighters?’ she said contemptuously. ‘I’ve seen more vicious three year olds. Much more vicious actually,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘Those little bastards really go in for the kill.’

  The Robins had the grace to look ashamed. They looked at the floor and twisted their feet around each other. Tamar had to fight back the urge to laugh.

  One of the little grey men came forward and cleared his throat. ‘Ahem,’ he began. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite know who…?

  ‘Tamar,’ she snapped. ‘Historic amendments.’ There was a tense silence, during which she wondered if she had said the wrong thing. Then she saw it; the little men were looking at her in awe. She had clearly made them nervous. Good.

  ‘Who’s responsible for this mess?’ she snapped.

  ‘Well – ma’am,’ stuttered one. ‘It looks as if you are.’

  ‘I meant whose fault is it?’

  The three stooges looked at each other and shrugged. ‘We don’t know,’ said the chattiest of the three. ‘We just get handed the problem, and well …’

  ‘And you’re doing a sterling job, I can see. But if I might make a suggestion?’

  They leaned forward eagerly. Tamar gazed thoughtfully at the three Robins. ‘A challenge,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Not a bad idea. Winner takes all, ’specially if we can arrange it so that they all win.’

  ‘You lot,’ she barked. ‘How do you feel about an archery contest?’

  The Robins looked at each other. ‘Do we have a choice?’ asked the one who had issued the challenge and whose head was bleeding.

  ‘No.’

  * * *

  Tamar whistled as she strode down the corridor. That had gone rather well. The three claimants would be inserted back into history at slightly different intervals, all believing that they had won the right to be remembered as ‘Robin i’ the hood’. For the beings who spun the cosmos, arranging three separate archery contests, all identical, should be a piece of cake. Of course, there would always be pedantic historians who would dispute the true origins of the legend, but so what? It would give them something to argue about and keep them out of mischief. And at least the Robins were happy.

  But best of all, she had managed to swipe one of the clerks access cards. She strode along singing ‘Merry men, merry men, merry men, men, men, men,’ to the tune of “The Lone Ranger”.

  * * *

  ‘He looks like one of us boss,’ said Snarkle. (Some people never learn)

  The Lord of hell only smiled. (Later he would listen to the tale of Johnny Town Mouse and the Flopsy Bunnies.) ‘Yes, it’s intriguing really – a classic case of morphic resonance. He’s obviously not an ordinary mortal. Perhaps he’s on the demon fast-track.’

  Denny panicked; it couldn’t be … could it? And do I really look like them? He glanced at the devils and imps around him in horror. Then he mentally shrugged. Oh well, he had never been what you would call handsome.’

  ‘Mind you,’ mused his Anti-Holiness. ‘I don’t seem to have a record of him, perhaps he’s a…’ he spat the word. ‘Hero.’ (Heroes deserved Jackie Collins)

  The imps shuddered impressively.

  ‘Well, if he’s not dead,’ said Snarkle, really pushing his luck now. ‘Don’t we have to send him back?’

  Satan pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. ‘Judas,’ he addressed a weaselly man on his left, ‘what’s the directive on that one?’

  ‘Nothing in the rules says you have to be dead to be here boss.’

  ‘Hey!’ objected Denny. ‘I’m not supposed to be here, I didn’t sign up for this. I’m not a bad guy.’ Uneasily he wondered if this were, true. After all, nobody’s perfect, and only last year he had turned his landlord into a statue. He wondered if leaving the loo seat up was a cardinal sin; Tamar certainly seemed to think so. However, it appeared that this was not the point. The crucial phrase here, as it turned out was “didn’t sign up for this.”

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Satan furrowed his brow. ‘Judas – check that, will you?’

  After an apparently endless search through a huge tome, while Satan fidgeted and complained about the ruddy software, and why did the “other lot” get regular upgrades? Judas informed the company. ‘He’s right, no contract.’

  ‘Damn.’ Lucifer thumped his hands on the sides of his armchair. ‘So what the Hell’s he doing here, spying?’ He looked so thunderous that Denny cowered. ‘Speak mortal.’

  N - no, I’m just lost – honest.’

  The devils laughed. ‘Lost – lost, that’s what he said before.’

  ‘Load of rubbish, you can’t get lost here. – Well, you can if you’re a lost soul of course but …’

  ‘Let’s put him in the lava pits, soon get the truth out of him.’

  ‘We can’t.’ said Lucifer. ‘He’s out of our jurisdiction.’

  Denny breathed out. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I was in mainframe …’

  Satan actually went white – a difficult feat when your natural hue is a sort of reddish plum colour. He gulped. ‘Oh Gawd,’ he spluttered. The imps stared. ‘What?’ he said. ‘It’s just a saying.

  ‘Anyway,’ he rallied, ‘get him out of here. I’m getting one of my migraines. This was a good attempt at nonchalance, but Denny was not fooled. ‘I want …’ he began. Then he felt a hundred horny little hands grip him and drag him away.

  * * *

  Mainframe – central files. Now what? Tamar sighed; she had no idea what she was looking for. Well, Denny of course, but … this was unlike the other files in that it was not a file really, it was a – there was no getting around it – it was a cloud. Her own personal cloud apparently, although she had seen someone come in just before she had. There was no sign of him. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’ came the reply.

  Tamar nearly fell off her cloud, until she remembered that it was only data, and so was she. ‘Oh shit,’ she breathed.

  ‘Sorry,’ came the reply. ‘Command not recognised.’ And now she noted the slightly sing-song quality to the voice. ‘The most common password in the universe,’ she thought, wryly. Although, here there was clearly more to it.

  ‘I need some help,’ she asked tentatively. She was finally beginning to feel out of her depth.

  ‘Ask me anything.’

  ‘Um, I need to find someone.’

  ‘Who?’ Wow this was really sophisticated software; it was like having a normal conversation – almost.

  ‘Denis Sanger, he’s …’

  ‘Fifty nine - hundred files found – specify by date and place of birth.’

  Tamar counted on her fingers muttering under her breath,’ so if he’s 25 no 26 now, that’s 1978, and he was born in London somewhere’

  ‘Thinking – twenty seven files found, specify exact date and place of birth.’

  ‘Thinking,’ responded Tamar mischievously. But “God” apparently had no sense of humour, and infinite patience.

  Tamar shugged. ‘Okay, 12th Dec 1978 …’

  She got no further. ‘Denis Alexander Sanger, born 12/12/78 11:58 P.M at King’s Cross Hospital, Ward 22 – Mother Alice Meriam Sanger, Father Julian David Sanger, not found. That is to say, his current location is not known – that is odd.’

  ‘Very odd,’ agreed Tamar. She was thinking, at the same time, that she had just found out, in ten seconds, more about Denny than he had told her in two years. ‘Does that mean he’s dead?’

  ‘Thinking.’ And this time Tamar could have sworn she heard a slight whirring sound. ‘No record of death – Denis Sanger has fallen out of the matrix – he could be in one of the archives – checking … Ah here it is. Not an archive exactly. Denis Sanger is in Hell.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s okay then.’ This news was surprising, but not too worrying. If anybody could get out of Hell, i
t was Denny; at least he had the Athame. He was probably slicing demons into mince at this very moment, probably having a whale of a time.

  A nasty thought occurred. ‘And you’re sure he’s not dead?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Can I help you with anything else?’

  ‘Actually …’

  * * *

  The boatman was stunned. ‘Take him back? You’ve got to be kidding. Nobody goes back. Unless you count Hercules – young Trevor as his Dad called him – of course, back and forth like a bloody fiddlers elbow that one, but …’ He stopped.

  The imp was nodding. ‘Charon, just take him, okay?’

  Charon shook his head. ‘Him, really? Well Heroes aren’t what they used to be, an’ that’s the truth. They used to be taller. Well, get aboard young feller, got any money?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘Huh, you are a typical hero after all,’ he said. ‘They never pay their way. Oh well, let’s go, I haven’t got an eternity you know.’ He chuckled hoarsely.

  ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘you might want to lose the horns if you’re going topside, might make you stand out a bit, if you see what I mean.’

  * * *

  The cloud vanished; then two things happened. First, Tamar expected to find herself hurtling through the air, and second, this did not happen, she was once again standing on nothing. ‘God?’ she tried, experimentally. Silence. Not even the whirring sound of “thinking”.

  She tried ‘Oh shit.’ But no reprimand was forthcoming.

  ‘Help,’ this was a formulaic response, she did not really expect any help, naturally. I mean, since when did a computer help anyone, even under normal circumstances?

  She sat down on empty air and began to worry. There were two possible explanations for this turn of events, and neither of them was encouraging, and both meant that she was in serious trouble. It could be A, a computer meltdown, which meant that, sooner or later, someone would fix it, and she would get out just in time to answer a lot of awkward questions about what she was doing in here in the first place. Still, there was probably plenty of time to think up something. She expected it would take between a millennium and an eternity before the engineers were called, a bit like being trapped in a lift in a multi-storey car-park.

  Explanation B, was, of course, that she had been caught, and was being held for questioning. This was slightly less worrying, at least someone would be along shortly, and she had been in worse jams. Still it was kind of eerie in here; she wondered uneasily if she would begin to run out of air, but that was silly, she was mere data in a file. She did not need air. This argument, however, was not persuasive, and she began to feel panicky.

  ‘Mind over matter, mind over matter,’ she told herself, ‘it’s actually quite nice in here, the peace and quiet, the sunshine …’ Then, in the grand tradition of broken lifts everywhere, the lights went out.

  * * *

  ‘Gone?’ Hecaté was understandably perplexed.

  ‘Yes gone,’ said Stiles. There were only so many ways of saying it.

  ‘And, and please do not take this the wrong way, I have every faith in your abilities, but you are certain that …’

  ‘No, I’m not bloody certain,’ he snapped, ‘maybe they were watching a mime who submitted to spontaneous combustion, but I doubt it.’

  Hecaté nodded gravely. ‘As do I,’ she said. Although intelligent in many ways – preternaturally so, in fact, Hecaté was unable to grasp sarcasm, possibly because under normal circumstances sarcasm is not used on gods. Grovelling, in fact, is the accepted manner of addressing a deity if you want to keep all your extremities intact and where they are supposed to be.

  Stiles let it go. He should not have let his temper get the better of him, if he was not so tired and worried … but it was not her fault. And even if his normal way of dealing with worry and stress, learned from his days on the force, was to spread it around, it was different with her, she was … special. And she never lost her temper even when he was being irritable or just downright obnoxious; she never complained – well hardly ever – she just put up with him, and apparently loved him. It worried him sometimes – what did he ever do to deserve it? He glanced at her there was a slight frown on her face, she looked worried too. A pang of remorse went through him.

  She caught him looking at her and gave a wan smile. ‘Do not worry,’ she told him, ‘we will solve this.’ she was trying to comfort him. It was unbearable.

  ‘We will.’ It was a statement, made with an absolute confidence and certainty that he did not really feel. But it convinced her; her brow cleared. This time the smile was genuine.

  ‘I really must try harder,’ he thought, ‘not to be such a grouchy bastard.’

  ‘We should go back to the – how would you put it? – “The scene of the crime”,’ she said.

  He grinned.

  ‘Maybe I can pick something up,’ she continued. ‘Although …’ she glanced at the screen, uncertainly. ‘Maybe I should not leave my post.’

  ‘It won’t take us long,’ said Stiles. ‘I really think we should go. I have a feeling this is important, we need to find this guy.’

  ‘Or at least look for him,’ said Hecaté with a gentle smile.

  * * *

  Tamar was getting worried. She did not know how long she had been sat in the dark but at least, in a way, it was less unnerving than the light. This way you could not see that you were sitting on absolutely nothing.

  A nasty thought occurred to her. ‘I’ve been in this situation before; I’m being deleted! Maybe I’m just going to be left here forever.’

  Suddenly the light came on, and she found that she was sitting on the cloud again. ‘Here we go,’ she muttered. A shaft of sunlight hit her square in the eye. ‘We have ways of making you talk,’ she thought. There was utter silence. ‘Psyching me out?’ she wondered.

  Then she heard the voice. ‘File update complete – what’s so funny about that?’ For Tamar was laughing hysterically in her relief.

  Eventually she recovered herself. ‘God?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes?’ there was a definite hint of petulance in the voice this time.

  ‘Where is Denis Sanger? I mean, current location of …’

  ‘He is on the River Styx’

  ‘Coming or going?’

  ‘Going. Anything else?’

  ‘Oh good – I mean yes. Can you help me to find a person called Askphrit? Well not so much a person …’

  Before she had finished the sentence, she found herself in a dark street with the rain lashing down on her. Just ahead of her was a shuffling figure, head down, shoulders drawn in against the rain and cold. The figure seemed vaguely familiar. ‘It can’t be!’

  She followed him anyway.

  As she looked around she tried to estimate the year and location. There were street lights and neon signs, so obviously the 20th century or later. There were cars on the road, but they were going by too fast for her to be able to see them, and anyway identifying cars was not her strong suit. Denny would have come in handy right now. She pushed the thought aside and continued to follow the tramp-like figure that, unlikely as it seemed, had to be Askphrit. They rounded a corner, and she realised where she was. So, what the hell was he doing in Denver? What was the old villain up to?

  He turned into an alley and sat down, pulled a few sacks over him and pulled out a bottle from which he took a long draught. Then light dawned.

  * * *

  ‘Okay, let’s get some answers, let’s go find this guy.’ Stiles looked grim.

  ‘Or at least look for him,’

  ‘There’s really no need,’ the voice came from behind them.

  ‘Looking for me?’ the man said, as they turned to face him. ‘How nice, but as you can see, I’ve found my own way here. Do you think you could help me out?’

  Stiles and Hecaté looked at each other in shock. Stiles was the first to recover.

  ‘What
the hell are you doing here?’

  * * *

  Denny emerged into sunlight, in what appeared to be New York. One of the seven entrances to hell, Charon informed him. He was not surprised.

  ‘This is the one closest to home for you,’ said Charon, (Denny did not believe it for a second) ‘We aim to please. Come back soon.’

  Denny did not bother to answer. He sat down on a handy step and breathed in deeply. ‘Well, change my shorts,’ he said.

  After a while, he stood up; the world was frozen around him, no chance of teleporting home, unless … maybe there was someone who could help. He started to walk.

  ~ Chapter Fifteen ~

  Denny had to break in, of course. They would obviously be in no condition to answer the door, being frozen in time, like the rest of the world. It was only when he thought of this that he realised that he had no idea how to unfreeze them.

  Cindy was in front of a mirror evidently applying lipstick (so- no surprises there) and Eugene was watching TV. Well at least they were both home (and not doing anything revolting). Thank God they had relocated to New York, it had taken him two hours (except it had not – it had just felt like it had) to get here on foot, imagine if they had still been in London. On the other hand, what frigging use were they as statues? As he pondered this he fingered the Athame, strange to tell, he had forgotten all about it. Of course! ‘I wish I knew how to unfreeze them.’ And he did.

  It was so simple really, all he had to do was move them, and this was not as easy as it sounds. Moving someone who is frozen in time is comparable to pulling someone out of a black hole, except gravity is a puling infant compared to time when it comes to holding something down. If he had not had demonic strength – literally – courtesy of the Athame, he would never have managed it.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he gasped, collapsing on the floor with Cindy gazing down at him perplexedly. He had started with her on the assumption that as, the lighter of the two, she would be the easier to move. He had not bargained on being so exhausted afterwards that, even with her help, he did not think he would have the strength to move Eugene. Then again, he had time to recover while he explained the situation to her, he had nothing but time when you came to think about it.